


The Story of Red

by Munnin



Series: Hugin Chronicles [23]
Category: Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Last Jedi - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Star Wars: The Last Jedi Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munnin/pseuds/Munnin
Summary: There was a man on Yavin IV who everyone knew as Red.





	The Story of Red

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a postscript and afterthought to the Hugin Chronicles.

There was a man on Yavin IV who everyone knew as Red. No-one was sure if that was his name or just something he answered to. Mostly because Red didn’t talk. Something to do with the big, twisted scar at the base of his throat. The one his faded old scarf didn’t quite cover. 

He had a vocaliser, built into his arm. But like his arm, it was old and banged up, patched and repaired over and over. The fingers of that hand were all a little different – replaced or repaired all at different times and in different ways. When he wiggled them just so, the servos each made a slightly different sound. If you were really quiet and listened really closely, he’d play little tunes as he tapped his fingers. A trick the children of the base loved.

Parts of his arm dated back to the Clone Wars. Or so the old engineers said.

Most people called him Red because of the skin paint he had. It faded and old, and bent by the deep lines in his face. Most people only saw it on his face – the two vertical lines that crossed the outer corners of his eyes and ran from his hairline to his collarbone. A symbol was mirrored on his cheekbones, close to the lines. Some people said they looked like the letter R, some like the number 7. Or some say they were from a language older than Aurebesh.

If there was more hidden by his hair, no-one knew. Because he wore it long and grey and pulled back away from him face. One of the young hanger techs said she’d seen him without his shirt and there was more. But that he had lots of scars too.

But no-one was quite brave or rude enough to ask him to show them. It wasn’t their business. 

Everyone had a story about who they thought Red was. Some people said he was a soldier, some say he was a pilot. Others that he was a Clone. Not that most people had ever seen a real clone. They were all dead, weren’t they? And those who were old enough to remember the Clone Wars, said nothing at all. 

But they nodded to Red politely as they passed. 

The best stories of all where that Red was a warrior chief from some primitive world that the Empire had destroyed. Because even though Red was old; he was strong. Very strong. And not just because of his mechanical arm. He was strong all over. 

And then there were the cats.

They weren’t little cats, the type you might keep as pets or to hunt vermin. These were giants who stood as high as a man’s waist, and had fangs and claws as long as your hand. Black as night with grey stripes like moonlight though leaves. Wherever Red was, the two cats were too. 

Red didn’t talk. But the cats understood him. And he understood them.

Every morning before dawn, Red would take a speeder and go out into the jungle. And the cats would run with him. Because they were as fast as a speeder, and even more agile. 

And every day, before noon, Red and the cats would come back with an animal or two slung over the back of the speeder. Most of the meat served in the base’s kitchen came from Red and his cats. 

No-one ever saw Red touch a weapon. If he hunted with his cats, it was with his bare hands. 

It was easy to see why there might be stories about Red being wild man from some wild world when you saw him in the little clearing outside the temple, gutting and skinning his prey. And not with a vibro-knife either. With a blade made from chipped black glass. Something that looked like it came from an alien world, untouched by space travel. Or from a very, very long time ago. 

Standing there, flesh and metal arm covered in blood, wielding his glass knife. Feeding the parts people don’t eat to the two giant black cats. Listening to them crunch through bone thicker than your arm.

He had to be some warrior king. Right? How old was he? Really?

But in the evenings, he was a different Red. In the evenings, he was Red the Skin Painter. With his special boxes of colours and his sharp little tools, all gleaming and clean.

Many people on the base had been painted by Red. But not the way you get painted on other worlds. Red didn’t paint what you asked for. He painted what you needed. And only when you needed it. 

He didn’t paint the Starbird on people just because they were rebels. He didn’t paint victory marks or squad tattoos. He especially didn’t tattoo kill scores.

If you wanted a tattoo for a reason – someone you lost, something that happened, something that mattered; you went to Red. 

You got a bottle of whatever rough-as-paint-stripper hooch the ground crew had cooked up this week and you found him, wherever he was. Usually helping out with ship repairs or tinkering with one of the ships. 

If he was willing, and he generally was, you went to his private little shack on the edge of the jungle. And you sat with him, and you drank, and you talked. About whatever it was that was on your mind that made you want to be painted.

And Red listened. 

Not just because he didn’t talk. He really listened. To everything you said.

And even if he didn’t paint you that day, you went away feeling better. 

And maybe, a day or two later, Red would stop you in the corridor and nod. And that night, he would paint something for you. 

It wasn’t something you picked, or wanted. But what Red decided you needed. 

And it was always beautiful, and it was always right. 

And even with his shiny clean tools, it always hurt. But when it was over, you felt better. 

***

That was why Leia went looking for Red as they were preparing to evacuate Yavin IV. 

The old man had made it clear he would not be following the fleet to Hoth. The ice planet was too cold for the cats. And Red would not go where the cat couldn’t. No, he would stay and make sure the base was properly cleared out before going his own way. 

So much he made clear, without ever saying a word. 

He had a knack for encouraging you to talk till you came to the same conclusion he had. Guiding your reasoning with little nods or shakes of the head. And somehow, you always wanted to get it right. To make Red proud of you. It was an art Leia wished she could master. 

In the end, Leia arranged for a beat up old U wing to be left, for Red to fly out when he was ready. When the ground crews found out, they made time during the pack-up to pad out the cargo area and install restraints for the cats. Because even though they were big and scary – everyone on the base liked them. 

It may have been planning that took Leia to Red’s corner of the temple. But she found she stayed long after she’d passed on her message. 

Because he listened. And because she badly needed someone to talk to.

It had only been a few short weeks since the Battle of Scarif. Since her own capture and torture. Since the destruction of Alderaan. Since the death of her parents. Since her rescue and escape. Since the threat of the Death Star had loomed over her once more, threatening to take away everything she had.

Never in all that time, had she made room for her own grief. 

But there, in the private little nook made of old pallets and duro-plast, she cried.

Red wrapped his big arms around her, rocking her like a child. He gave Leia just what she needed to let out everything she’d been holding back for so long. 

Once she had cried herself calm, Red sat her on the edge of his bed and fetched out his box of colours.

“I… I’m not sure I- We really don’t have time.”

Red hushed her and held out his hand. 

He worked carefully and quickly, painting layers of blue and green in the crock of her arm, following a pattern she couldn’t discern with his clean little tools. 

When he was done, he applied a cooling spray to her arm, wiping away the excess paint.

To reveal the shimmery globe of Alderaan, picked out in brilliant colour. No larger than a coin and yet perfectly detailed. Her home, always close, always part of her. 

She cried again and kissed him, before leaving for her own transport.

***

Leia never forgot, even as the paint slowly faded over many years. 

The Empire fell, the New Republic rose. And then the First Order. 

And through all of it, when she was troubled Leia found herself slipping a hand under her sleeve, feeling the little ridges and whirls of scar tissue. And always found comfort there.

She looked back as they flew away from Crait, feeling the loss in her heart. Her brother, her son. So, so many friends. 

The lines of red in the white crust made her think for Red for the first time in years and she reached under her sleeve to touch the faded tattoo. 

Whoever he had been, whatever had become of him, Red had been an agent of hope.


End file.
